


to be another

by snowmints



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Also Featured: Ghost's persistently affectionate nature, Delicate flowers, Depictions of Trauma through heavy responsibility, Exhaustion, Family, Featured: THK learning to enjoy things, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Recovery, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowmints/pseuds/snowmints
Summary: Another tap against the iridescent metal of their new nail. The Hollow Knight shows no intent of breaking their patient gaze anytime soon. The message cannot be clearer.Safe here, with me. You can rest.
Relationships: Hornet & The Knight (Hollow Knight), The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & Hornet & The Knight, The Hollow Knight | Pure Vessel & The Knight
Comments: 27
Kudos: 249





	to be another

A beautiful thing, this; the faux light slotting through the flaws in the ceiling above, a cloaking of bright reinvigoration that makes the colours of Greenpath brighter. The infection’s death has taken with it all the mimicries of Radiance-puppeted life. Abandoned and unattended to, her strings collapse and leave behind empty carapaces and shrivelled root, passing peaceably into the kinder hands of time. 

The Hollow Knight likes the vegetation. Their entrancement is almost fascinating; long, hesitant fingers as sharp as they are keen, tracing soft lines along the petals of a bloom or the other. Sometimes they do not dare to touch. Sometimes, they only allow themself the act of looking. Even that is something, she supposes. They keep what they can get of their new freedom, and watch with the fervour of a newly hatched grub discovering the world. They treasure it. A quiet, long stare at the spectrum of flora; the occasional strong gust carrying with it a kaleidoscopic stroke of pollen into their vision. It is enough for them, it seems, because they refuse to go anywhere else at all. 

Hornet leaves them to it.

She is not cruel or cold. 

She has simply never learnt how to be family. 

She is for it; of it; certainly, she is nothing if not a eulogy to Herrah's motherhood. She strains to remember the small wisps of it now, but this much is true: she is the union of princess and promise. Protection and restoration are her birthrights, and those, she can do. It comes with the comforting weight of her needle at her side, and a steady spool of silk under her shawl. It is not Hornet’s purpose to dabble in something so small. She is not equipped to.

And so the best she can do for them _is_ letting them be with neither interruption nor intrusion; it will have to be enough.

* * *

Ghost has taken to joining the Hollow Knight. They still like to play the child even now, as though the stir of the void that has devoured Gods behind their mask can somehow coexist with such behaviour. They are very good at it, too, their hands (deceptively small) always smattered in a generous coating of mud and grime. With their fist that has slain dozens, they hold up an unflattering combination of flowers. The Hollow Knight brings up a finger to their chin, as though contemplating the bouquet. A moment's observation later, they pull out what looks to be a yellow weed with excruciating slowness from the arrangement and put it away.

Ghost stares.

A moment of silence passes between the two vessels. With more excruciating slowness to match, Ghost reaches towards the yellow weed that sits between them. The Hollow Knight’s eyes almost give the impression of narrowing. Hallownest’s saviour slips the flower back into the bouquet, making direct eye contact with them. Ghost waves the collection of mismatched colours in their sibling’s face- a suggestion of reconsideration. The larger vessel crosses their arm- or they perform what Hornet can only assume is the closest equivalent to that they can manage.

Hornet’s promised herself she wouldn’t waste her time watching. Still...A periodic check-up of Hallownest was crucial- and the Northwest of Greenpath _was_ in Hallownest. And frankly, it is hard not to get caught up watching the vessels fall back into this strange, diluted version of themselves as though the world allows for that. Like it is easy, this metamorphosis into a Hallownest that doesn't exist only to maim them. It’s hard to remember that they're not entirely wrong- that perhaps there is time for such things. Time for passing fancies and petty arguments about arrangements and weeds.

Hornet turns away before they can catch anything of her but a whisper of red vanishing behind a column of vine-wrapped stone.

* * *

The testaments of the Radiance’s reign have faded faster than any arduous history has the right to. Countless years of stolen life and stolen dreams should not leave only cadavers that too soon turn to ash. There is an audacity in it that angers her, this peaceful retirement with no struggle, no visible scars but the disorganised emptiness of a kingdom once bursting with life.

She is not selfish or of unsound mind. 

Hornet does not miss the infection’s all-encompassing presence, vine-like tendrils of titian dream and horror stealing soul; thought; individuality. She only begrudges it this easy departure, as though the Radiance's light had not been forcibly extinguished, but merely put to a gentle slumber. Maybe it has. She'd rather not think of; it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

There is nothing to do. The needle is heavy at her side for once, aching for a purpose that no longer calls to it. It is not much needed in assisting what few living survivors of the infection remain. No, these errands require hands and direction and firmness in one's voice. They require guidance. Protection not for Hallownest, but the glimmers of life nestled under its carapace. 

It is not beyond her to pick up this duty. She will grow into it like a new shell. She will have to.

(Ghost finds her when she’s scouting through the Crossroads for survivors. They reach for her hand, and when she draws it back out of years’ worth of cumulative instinct, they settle for holding onto her shawl with their (misleadingly small) hand. They don’t let go until they’ve seen a sickly slumbering bug from within the mines at the Crossroads’ eastern sector out to safety, and even then, they only truly leave when Hornet wearily tells them she has business to attend to. Alone.)

  
  


* * *

Hornet has seen delicate flowers before. This is in large part because most of the original citizens of the quickly repopulating Dirtmouth seem to have at least one apiece. (Sly likes to pretend he’s one of the few without time for nonsense sentimentality, but Hornet’s a huntress after she’s a guardian, and her eyes cannot miss the glint of pale light tucked far in the darkest corner of his emptiest cupboard.)

However, she can't say she’s ever seen so many at once; a dozen, at least, their stems tied together with aching care. There is a bedding of bright magenta flowers under them, a colour just striking enough so as not to be drowned under the weight of the delicate blooms’ light.

Hornet stares.

The Hollow Knight stares back.

Ghost tries to discretely kick away what looks like dozens of broken stems and shrivelled petals behind them. 

An incredulous silence comes over the three of them. Finally, Hornet remembers how to speak.

“What is the meaning of this?” she says, not meaning for it to sound so sharp.

(She is not uncaring or unkind.)

Ghost points at the Hollow Knight, who seems to hesitate before raising their arm. It hangs in mid-air, still; then, as though remembering how to say hello, they wave it at her. Ghost, in turn, performs a series of energetic leaps and follows them up with a lap around the arrangement of flowers laid at their feet. Both of Hornet’s siblings look up at her expectantly.

She says, fighting the rising search of incredulity: “You… both put this together?” Her gaze turns to the larger vessel. "You helped them get the flowers?"

Ghost nods with vigour. The Hollow Knight inclines their head. Hornet can only stare- the Hollow Knight does not leave Greenpath. They barely leave this section of it, let alone venturing so far away and so soon. And for _what,_ all this trouble? Her eyes fall upon the flowers again.

How long have they been working on this?

(She just doesn’t know how to be something that isn’t Hallownest’s. She wonders how her siblings manage.)

“....”

Hornet sits down. The blades of grass feel strange against her knees, kissing drops of dew along her bare legs. It is not unpleasant. Slowly, like lost roots reaching for their place in the earth, her siblings settle beside her, one at either side; she feels their bodies settle into place more than she sees them. She's overwhelmed.

Hornet inhales. Suddenly, she remembers that she is unspeakably tired, and cannot imagine that her siblings aren’t in some capacity. Not after all this.

“Thank you,” she says with a softness she’s never suspected herself to have. Or more accurately, one she’d never suspected herself capable of affording. Guardianship is a thankless duty. A corpse does not have the means for gratitude, and she has never been fool enough to expect anything else.

The weight of Ghost’s mask presses into her side, forming creases in her shawl. The Hollow Knight only sits crosslegged and upright, their eyes turned towards the scenic expanse of Greenpath. Still, Hornet doesn’t miss the silent gift of company they’re offering through their unmoving presence. 

She watches Greenpath with them, almost feeling the buzz of its remaining life hum under her shell. Her eyes are growing regrettably heavy.

A sharp tap against metal. Hornet startles. Locks eyes with the source, the swift efficiency of a huntress backing her instincts.

Her other sibling meets her gaze, a sharp claw pressed against the solid metal of their nail. Sharp one, this. It was the Nailmaster's last gift before his abrupt resignment.

Another tap against the iridescent metal of their new nail. The Hollow Knight shows no intent of breaking their patient gaze anytime soon. The message cannot be clearer.

_Safe here, with me. You can rest._

She wants to protest. She can take care of herself. There isn’t even any danger worth the worry, anymore, and _she’s_ not the one who’s been ailing, recovering centuries of immeasurable pain at the hands of Infection. It should anger or offend her, this implication that protection is something she needs. Like she hasn't been her own protection for years and years, like she hasn't thrived when all else died. _Alone,_ as her duty to this memory of a kingdom dictated. 

(It doesn't do either).

But... she can see even now the blank, unrelenting stare she’ll receive as a response.

For now, it is easier to rest. For now, Hornet can forgive herself this indulgence.

For now, she'll let herself be. And it will be enough.

(Strange thing, this; the princess and protector who cannot be anything but, aching to learn how to. Aching to be _it,_ this sub-illusion of family, not for it; of it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This work was a gift for a friend, and I dearly hope you enjoyed it! If so, please consider leaving a comment, as they do make me incredibly overjoyed to read. ^v^


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